


cruel love and sweetness

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 90s Mendo, Bondage and Discipline, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Pegging, Prompt Fill, another Mendo AU, smoking cos Mendo, switching both ways, this is as close to xReader as i get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 22:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13350981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: A good and faithful Mendho comes when she’s called.





	cruel love and sweetness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vell1chor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vell1chor/gifts).



> Prompt: Between scenes on Police Rescue, 1994: Mendo gets absolutely wrecked in his trailer by an anonymous good and faithful Mendho. (Pegging is an option)
> 
> A very late birthday present for vell1chor who sends me the filthiest Mendo prompts when I should be focusing on other fandoms, hehe. I hope this does our obsession with 90s Mendo justice.
> 
> Title from _Milk_ by Garbage cos, you know, era-appropriate music!

_i am lost // so i am cruel // but i’d be love and sweetness // if i had you_

A good and faithful Mendho waits patiently. For interviews, for photoshoots, for candids in unexpected locations, for him to update his goddamned Instagram. Sometimes this patience ruptures in bouts of private or not so private frustration but that’s all right and totally understandable.

A good and faithful Mendho smiles indulgently at his wriggliness, and adores his fits of uncontrollable laughter. Frets about the state of his hair and his smoking (even if that may be secretly hot). Carefully categorises his suits and his tees and his coats and how ridiculously tight his shirts get. Groans at how he dresses himself at screenings when he clearly hasn’t called the stylist. Erupts in squeals when it’s crisp hair, glowing skin and sleek Burberry blue suit at premieres because the stylist knows best. Although the scarf that one time didn’t quite work.

Swears at eBay and shipping prices and delayed release dates, and is grateful even for shitty subtitled rips of movies. Resists the urge to troll him on social media, valiantly tries to decipher his Instagram captions, and never knows whether to squee or groan when he posts grainy reluctant selfies. Has Opinions about the tache and is never surprised when it disappears and reappears.

A good and faithful Mendho does not necessarily identify as female but let’s say in this instance she does.

It’s the Nineties. Music is grunge and R&B and bubblegum pop. Fashion is morphing from frenetic neon to boho chic and moving towards post-apocalyptic minimalist. Everyone is wearing CK One, and pretending to be really moved by Kurt Cobain’s lyrics. Former child stars are transitioning to roles of pregnant girls and angry young men.

He enters the second phase of his career, the larrikin shading towards murderous. There are sets where he’s fully integrated, singing loudly and talking to everyone, engaged and happy. She reads about those experiences, never witnesses them. He doesn’t summon her then, he doesn’t need her.

On the sets where he isolates himself, deliberately antagonises other actors for whatever artistic purpose he has in his head, that’s when he makes use of her.

This is the arrangement: he calls, she comes.

Money has nothing to do with it, even though he has plenty that he blows through and then has to go chasing a role. She has her own life, he has no knowledge of it, never intrudes. No one knows. This suits them both, entirely private, entirely perverted. 

 

**_waiting for you //_ **

“There you are,” he says, shutting the trailer door behind him.

Her case stands beside her chair. She has one knee crossed over the other, her stiletto heels very black and very high, the steel tip of one grazing her sleek bare calf. White silk shirt with open collar framing her throat, black waist cincher, smooth black leather skirt, her lipstick a perfect murderous red. She glances up from her magazine, and smiles coolly. “Hello.”

He is a tall beautiful young man, with dark brown glossy tufts of hair and smiling blue grey eyes. His skin is almost perfect, like there’s marble beneath the human surface, tautening all the shapes and contours of his face. He knows how alluring he is. Wardrobe on this particular job has dressed him well, combat boots and black cargo trousers and a grey tee that clings rather suggestively to his muscled chest. 

Now as he watches her, his smile fades to a certain intent, and she notices the slight rough stubble around his mouth, a sullen shadow. She recognises this. The clean golden boy has fallen from grace, and lowkey hates everyone for it, wanting everyone to burn.

She looks down at the magazine and speaks as she turns the page, clear and undisturbed. “Safeword?”

“Rooftop,” he snarls and starts towards her. 

She uncrosses her legs in one swift movement, her spine coming straight and free from the chair, black toe pointed towards him, her voice snapping out: “Heel.”

He thuds to his knees with a whimper that sounds almost grateful. The dark glossy head is bent, nudging her foot in small movements until he’s rubbing his face along the sleek black vinyl of her shoe. His hands are curled on the grubby carpet of the trailer, he won’t touch until given permission. 

Sometimes he fights her and his own need, sometimes he’s all snarling petulance. This is when his viciousness turns in on himself, when his hands demand cruelty of her. She’s well capable of it. 

And then sometimes he’s like this, so tender and needy in his submission. 

“Are we going to run lines?” she asks with a certain irony.

“Please,” he replies, muffled into the carpet.

This involves him naked and bound, on his knees with his face down and hands locked behind his head, his perfect ass in the air. In her sleek leather skirt, she extends her smooth leg across the lovely contours of his back and crosses her other leg over so her shoe rests on his shoulderblade. She sees him tremble at the nearness of that steel spike. He wants the pain, the puncture. And he’s not getting it until he has the scene memorised.

“Eualgia,” she tells him once. “Do you know what that is?” A fistful of his hair to pull his head back. 

“What?” he sneers up at her, but there’s a wild laughter around his eyes, a type of joy she recognises and responds to. 

Her mouth curving, she replies, “Good pain, the kind of pain masochists -- like you -- crave.”

Because he loves the collar and the chain and the crop. Trembles with anticipation when she fastens the collar around his throat. Moans shamelessly when she reaches around him, breasts at his back, to pinch his nipples and bite at his ear. 

When she walks on him with her fine steel heels, balancing on one foot just to see him gasp at the weight of her pushing the point deeper into his skin. He’s supposed to lay flat and keep his arms outstretched but his hand comes to curl around her ankle, helpless and grateful and so happy at the fine pink marks she leaves on his chest and abdomen.

She is rough with him in so many sweet ways.

When she uses the crop on him without mercy, whips his cock until he cries and comes way too many times. He’s young, he can take it and stiffen up for more. Over and over until he’s a mess of tears and sweat and come, his hair smeared across his reddened face, pale strong thighs marked with red lines, his cock abused and soft. 

She whips him and pulls his head back, shoving three fingers into his mouth, her violence a glorious burn through her blood. Her violence that cuts beautiful red lines across his back and chest and ass. He wants a polaroid of that, and she wonders later that night, curled with a novel in her apartment, whether he looks at it and jerks off.

“Strip for me,” she tells him another time. He obeys, blushing a little and still brazen about his young male beauty. She has her silk blouse unbuttoned and laid open so he can see her bare tits. And now she leans back in her chair, seeing the way his gaze fastens there. “Come over here, please.”

He takes a breath in and locks his hands behind his neck as he stands in front of her. He’s entirely at her mercy and yet he looks down the perfect line of his nose at her, a certain hauteur about his half-lidded eyes. It doesn’t disturb her, she knows she can break him of that arrogance very easily. He has soft brown hair under his arms, an oddly sweet sight, and the line of his torso is so elegant, leading down to his cock long and cut and stiffening as she looks.

He wants her to write her name on his cock. Amused, she touches the tip of her index finger to the deep pink head. “Is that necessary?”

Smouldering eyes, sullen mouth. “I want it.”

So she writes it on to see how it looks. Black marker on raw pink curve. He whimpers and arches his back, a beautiful needy male animal caught in the grain of the polaroid.

“You want to be fucked, don’t you?” She runs her hand up the contour of his torso, feeling the toned muscles ripple under her palm. “You want to be held down and penetrated and Completely. Fucking. Owned. Don’t you?”

He stays stubbornly silent, glaring at her from under his brows, so much flickering need in his too expressive face and blue eyes.

“It’s okay,” she soothes. “I know you can’t say it. That’s all right. Don’t I take care of you?”

His face trembles at that, caught in too much vulnerability. And her heart breaks a bit for him, this little boy lost. So she cradles his face and kisses him slow, tells him wordlessly that his pain and his secrets are safe with her.

When she stands and lifts one heel to take her panties off, he kisses the stretched lace, breathes in the soaked female scent of her, and lifts his head to sniff at her cunt. She loves that, the sight of his upturned chin, the way he closes his eyes and breathes in with a kind of blissed out delight.

So she pulls the chain attached to his collar, wrapping it around her hand so his pretty face is pulled right up between her thighs. He eats her out like he’d like to crawl up inside her, eager and sloppy, good enough that she moans and touches her own nipples, skin hot with sensation. He sucks on her clit, his hands gripping the curves of her ass when she allows it, his hips thrusting into air, cock swollen hard and red. She lifts off him when he taps out to take a breath, and then he pulls her right back onto his mouth.

She comes and comes, hot with pleasure. Strokes his face and cups the bold slope of his cheekbone. “Good boy,” she says with round delicious emphasis on the vowels, smiling down at him. Precisely because it makes his face flush with so much resentment and reluctant delight. He has a praise kink and he hates it. He glares up at her and mouths her hand, whimpers as he pushes his face into her palm, so fucking needy and hating himself for it, so trusting and loving her for it. 

When she’s in garter belt and stockings, she pushes him down onto the chair and straddles his thighs. His hands are cuffed behind him, he can only look down and gasp as she leans back to brace herself with one hand on his knee, and she nudges his cock with two fingers so it rubs against the wet parting lips of her cunt. He watches and moans as she rides his thighs, teasing him with wet and hot and inside, over and over again until he’s so hard and hurting.

It gives her an idea. “Tell me, would you like a cock cage?”

His face trembles with arousal, mortification and uncertainty. “Maybe.”

She strokes his hair away from his forehead, knowing he’s going to think about it and maybe she’ll get a yes, maybe they’ll never mention it again.

His mouth around a cock is beautiful, pink and drooling, dark hair stuck to his temples with sweat of exertion. That polaroid she takes for herself, but his eyes gleam blue laughter up at her. Her hand cupping the back of his head, she fucks his mouth til he gags, just because she wants to, because that sound and the way he pulls off sends vicious happiness through her. 

He moans when she bends him over and licks down into his perfect ass. Licking him open and lubing him up, her touch alternating between tender and brutal until he’s swearing at her to fuck him already. She likes him best like this, mouthy and needy. But he’s happiest with the ball gag in, his wet mouth drooling around it, looking up at her with fierce blue eyes as she lubes up the double ended cock. 

The long curved end for him, the short fat end for her. He watches, whimpering with arousal, as she spreads the lips of her cunt and pushes the slicked bit inside her. It’s blue and glistening, she hears the throaty sound he makes as he watches it disappear into her. Smooth gleaming skin, bare breasts and sharp nipples above the black waist cincher, and below that is the vulnerable shape of her sex, running her hand along the long blue curve as she smiles at him and asks if he’s ready. 

Sometimes he’s the one to lower himself onto the hard blue cock, bracing himself on his thighs either side of her hips, muscles long and tensing. Sometimes he tugs at his own cock as he fucks himself on her, as she tugs on the chain of his collar, and he gasps, pretty and excited, down at her. 

Then sometimes he’s on his back, legs spread, totally exposed to her from balls to abdomen to chest to throat arched, so much pale freckled skin gleaming with sweat, as she fucks all her rage and aggression into him, and he cries out. She gives him no mercy, he wants none, shaking and blushing all the way down. She rakes her nails across his sensitive nipples, digs into flesh to leave trails of pink as he gasps and laughs around the ball gag, all reckless pleasure and wild joy in his beautiful eyes. Because his heart’s been broken -- by a girl, his parents, the industry, whichever -- and now nothing matters but this hedonism, this luscious dark night of the soul.

If he’s not cuffed, he pushes himself up on one arm and reaches his free hand to grasp her bare breast, groaning as she fucks him and jacks his cock. The times she flicks the switch on the bullet, the vibrations make him loud and hoarse, make her shudder with pleasure. 

When he comes, it’s in stripes of hot white up both their torsos.

She makes him lick her tits clean.

When they’re done and she’s dressed and packed up, she pushes him gently against the wall beside the trailer door. “Hands behind your back.” 

He obeys, still naked, streaked with sweat and his own come, an utterly ruined beautiful young man with his vulnerable weird mouth and expressive eyes. 

“You’re going to stand there,” she tells him tenderly, “and do nothing for five whole minutes after I’m gone. I want you to think about everything we’ve done here today. Fix it in your mind. Do that for me.”

He smiles at her long and slow, so blissed up and fucked out, and she kisses him deep before she leaves.

 

**_/////////_ **

Sometimes it’s fun and playful.

“There you are.”

She glances up from the magazine, heart leaping with joy, perfectly cool outside. “You didn’t know I’d be here so soon.”

He gives her a cheeky glinting smile as he closes the trailer door. “Well, I hoped …” He flicks a cigarette alight and flops onto the sidebench, all smiles and shaggy hair, long legs and broad shoulders in his grey tee and dark trousers. “Give us a kiss.”

This arrogance should not be attractive. But he’s so charming and clever and constantly reading something terribly intellectual that she can tease him about. These are the times when they talk for hours and then fuck at the very end. 

**_/////////_ **

 

**_// breaking for you_ **

Then there are the times when his viciousness turns, and he takes it out on her. When he enters, dangerous and smouldering. “There you are.” But he’s unsmiling as he uncaps a bottle of water and drinks, watching her with a certain lack of something behind his eyes.

It thrills her very deep inside.

“Merinthophilia,” he tells her, trailing his hand around the shape of her breast in the silk blouse. “Do you know what that is?”

She raises a brow at him. “No, what?”

He leans in and bites gently at her mouth. “Sexual arousal from being tied up.”

He ties her wrists with black rope in the shower cubicle and pulls her wrists above her head, attaches the rope to where the showerhead comes out of the wall. The water pours down on them. Blue glitter eyes, bright skin, and dark wet hair. He grips her chin with his big hand and pushes her face up, holds her in place for his mouth on hers, greedy and unkind. She shivers as his hand strokes down her throat, she’s not afraid of him, he knows her safeword, but this menace is sometimes a little too convincing. He goes down her body, the water droplets following, and and she moans, pulling against her bound wrists. His tongue invades her cunt, makes her whimper and choke in the water, tears in her eyes.

He takes polaroids of her in the shower cubicle, arms bound up beyond her head, mouth smeared with lipstick, and eyes burning fury at him. Polaroids of fine scratches he leaves on the outer curves of her breast, tiny red lines on pale flesh.

When she’s in lace trimmed stockings, all innocent and white with little black bows, he turns her around and cuffs her wrists behind her back. Big black cuffs with metal links. She sits on her calves, the cuffs resting on the small of her back, above her bottom round and curved. And hears the click and whirr of the polaroid camera.

He lounges back in the chair, in very tight black jeans that bulge just a little obscene. Black open shirt over black tee, cold sullen face, his eyes are very dead and pale blue. “Come here.”

His broad blunt hands pull open his jeans so his cock juts out, rude and reddish. 

On her hands and knees, she glares back at him and crawls over, knowing he likes the sight of her bare bottom in the air, the tender backs of her thighs exposed. She rubs her face around the head of his cock, moving towards the admission that she loves this.

Feels his patience stretch as he watches her, and so she makes her lips the perfect round shape and takes his cock into her mouth. When she has her hands free, she braces them on the hard denim of his thighs as her head bobs on his cock. the taste of him rich and sharp on her tongue. 

He likes to stay silent when she does this, implacable and cold, but sometimes just sometimes, when she uses her teeth -- when she’s allowed -- or when her throat opens up and he sinks in deep and wet, his breathing quickens until he makes soft rough moans and fucks her throat.

When he’s suited up, he has her on her hands and knees in front of him, cunt open, asshole revealed. Another whirr of the polaroid camera. And he strokes his big hand along her spine, thoughtful, considering. She feels the cold metal edge of his watch strap as he rests his palm on her ass. On a few of these occasions, he takes his cock out and fucks her hard before zipping up and leaving the trailer.

Other times he walks towards her, reefs out his belt and flogs her with it, suit trousers undone so his bare cock pushes out hard and hot, leaking. He’s like a Mapplethorpe photograph, brazen and beautiful, all hard angles and smooth curves, eye-wateringly sexual.

She’s made to bend over, straight legs, bare ass, cunt exposed. He belts her til she’s wet and dripping with arousal, and then he fucks her, pulling on the cuffs to keep her upright in position when she wants to collapse, moaning and crying with pleasure.

When she’s sitting in the chair with the tight leather skirt rucked up on her thighs, legs braced on high heels, ball gag in place and her hands bound behind her back, he smirks at her and commands, “Knees apart. I want to see your cunt.” 

But then he’ll open her blouse and watch her fume as he touches her breasts and bare them to the stuffy air of the trailer. Laughs down at her when he takes his cock out and rubs the head all over her cleavage, around the tightening shapes of her nipples. She hates him then, hates herself for loving this humiliation, for allowing herself to be used like this. And then so fucking grateful when he leans down to cradle her face and kiss her soft.

Sometimes she enters his trailer to find him standing, quite naked, putting a cigarette to his lips. When she locks the door and goes to him, he grabs her ass with one hand and pulls her close so he can kiss her, cock stirring against her clothes. He’ll turn her and yank her skirt up, groping under her ass to where her cunt is bare and wetting for him. She fights his callousness on these occasions, kissing him back with teeth and tongue, pushing at him until he tips her back onto the sidebench and pulls her panties all the way down her legs and off. Hauls her closer like she’s some goddamned fucktoy he paid for, and fucks her with a casual efficiency until she’s breathless and shaking.

He gets her to sit on her fine steel heels on the coffee table, in low slung lace panties and striped stockings so he can look at the revealed curve of her back as she unhooks the cincher and slips it off. She smirks at him over her shoulder, flirty and defiant. Another polaroid. 

He binds her ankles with a double coil of pearls and takes a polaroid of her, legs upstretched and the neat slit of her cunt on display. Tells her he likes it when she’s so glamorous and so debauched, like she’s a trophy for him. She wonders then what happens to the polaroids, whether he has them all lined up on some wall in his apartment as evidence of his virility, or tucked away in some shoebox, taken out only very late at night when he’s alone with his thoughts.

She comes to him once covered with tattoos. Not real but painted onto her skin. Big colourful intricate figures and patterns on her arms and across her chest, down between her bare breasts and across her abdomen. She hadn’t done it for him, it was part of a favour for an artist friend. It drives him wild.

By the time he’s done with her then, the tattoos are all smeared and distorted, half the paint on him. Her mouth is sore, fingerprints on her wrists and thighs, bite marks on all her soft fleshy parts, her insides aching, and all of her very happy. 

As she tells him, it’s always fun to discover a new kink.

There are times when he puts her on the sidebench and spreads her legs. On his knees, he licks at her cunt and holds onto her ass, squeezing the flesh as she grips the back edge of the bench and fucks his face. There’s a mirror opposite, she keeps seeing herself, naked tits, pouting nipples, and his dark head moving between her spread thighs, his glossy hair tufting against the pale skin of her abdomen.

He eats her out until she’s gasping and crying his name, and then he picks her up, slams her down on the narrow bed in the corner. His hand snaps around her throat a little too tight, making her clutch at his grasp, breathless and wide-eyed up at him. His chest pushes down on hers, he grabs her wrist and forces it down against the bed, stares at her with those fierce blue eyes, so much complicated anger and arousal in the workings of his handsome face. 

She knows then that the best way is to just yield, a grateful sort of giving up control and giving over to his will. Because she can take all his rage and all his violence, match it with her own, and together they can melt it away into nothing, into something resembling peace. If only for a little while.

That’s when he pushes his thumb into her mouth, pulling down her lower lip to feel its lushness, to grip her chin and feel the edge of her teeth. This is him testing her, because he knows. He puts his two middle fingers into her mouth, stretching her lips open. And sure enough, she wants to bite him, bite his fucking fingers off, but she breathes into it and settles, feels the aggression melt away, yielding to this moment of trusting in him, of letting go. It’s terrifying on a whole other level but no one knows, no one is here to witness her vulnerability except for him. And she’s seen him at his most broken.

When she’s collared and cuffed, naked with her hands behind her back, he tips her gently face down onto the bed, and makes sure her head is turned so she can breathe, his hand stroking tender down her spine. She hides her smile and says nothing, waiting for the sound. 

The precise click of the chain attaching to the collar. He tugs on it once, sharp enough that she gasps happily into the sheets. He takes hold of her hips and hauls her back so her ass is up for him. “Nice,” he mutters and strokes his index finger along the parting seam of her cunt, a series of long strokes until she’s wet, and then he strokes in. Deep enough that she gasps and pushes back on his hand, wanting so much to be used and fucked. He licks his finger and tells her she tastes sweet. Dips two fingers into her cunt and then into her mouth so she tastes herself. 

He gets up on his knees and lays his cock on her ass, the hot slick length of it along the cleft, rubbing it back and forth between curves of her flesh. Her back is arched, he’s teasing her like she isn’t ready to claw at him, like she isn’t begging to be fucked. A whimper in her throat, she spread her legs and pushes her ass out shamelessly, cool air on her aching visible cunt.

His laugh is very loud and joyous, appreciative. And then the chain jerks back and he rams his cock into her. He pulls the chain taut as he fucks her, like she’s his fucking ride, and she loves it. His hand comes around her throat, his chest to her back, tipping her chin up so he can kiss her mouth, his cock reaming her from behind. She feels the exquisite pain in her spine, sucking on his tongue, and savours this sense of complete possession, of being totally overwhelmed by his implacable willpower and his hard body. 

He fucks her harder, faster, his breath ragged. The collar seizes on her, flame licking along her skin, she’s sweating and gasping, pounded by his cock, fucking him back and feeling her heart speed up, all her blood rushing, roaring, and then bliss, pure echoing streaming bliss that floods through her. His hand is suddenly over her mouth, his lips against her ear, saying something but she doesn’t care, all her flesh melting with perfect exquisite pleasure.

**_/////////_ **

 

He does these things to her in his trailer because they could get caught, because there could be a knock on the flimsy door at any time to summon him onset. Some crew person or script supervisor or whatever could come in and find her like this, naked on her knees in front of him. Or him, ball gag in his mouth, collared and chained and fucked by her.

“Jesus,” she says when they’re done. “Was that method enough for you?”

He laughs into her hair. Gets his fingers around her chin and turns her face so he can kiss her softly. “You right?”

She kisses him long and deep in response, all the love spilling over in her chest.

A good and faithful Mendho knows the difference between reality and fantasy, where the lines blur and where the lines aren’t to be crossed. That the imagined figure of him is pure creation, and the reality of him is achingly inaccessible. And yet sometimes she thinks she’d like to bring him home. See him in her apartment of books and fairy lights, in her bed peaceful and asleep.

“Maybe,” she says quietly as he gazes at her, “maybe next time you come when I call.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wat? I go where the prompt sends me, and where the Mendo muse leads me. Don't look at me like that.
> 
> Quite a lot of these images and ideas come from [classyfemdomuniverse](http://classyfemdomuniverse.tumblr.com/) and [lackinprivacy](https://lackinprivacy.tumblr.com/). Thank christ for good sexy Tumblrs.
> 
> Also, apparently for twenty years I’ve thought the lyric was “breaking for you” when in fact it is “aching for you.” There you go.


End file.
